


we'll eat you up we love you so

by demisms



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, Gen, where the wild things are
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-12
Updated: 2012-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-05 05:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demisms/pseuds/demisms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rickon - <i>"And Max, the king of all wild things, was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all."</i></p><p>written for the asoiaf kink meme</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

> _The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind and another. His mother called him "Wild Thing!" And Max said, "I'll eat you up!!" So he was sent to bed without eating anything._

There are times where he cannot feel his feet for the cold. The aches have gone to be replaced by sharp, icy needles that snag at his feet and make him stumble, just like catching his stocking on the odd nail around the halls of Winterfell used to make him do, too. There are times - more times - where he cannot fool his stomach into thinking it is full by eating snow. Osha is a capable hunter, forager, and thief, but the further from the warm roads they go, the more into the snow they proceed, and the more they walk, the harder and harder it becomes to find any sort of sustenance at all, and when she slips him from her shoulders at night, they both sleep under thick cloaks and curled tight in vain attempts to ward off the hunger and the cold. 

He dreams of food at night. 

Dreams of lemon cakes and honeyed milk with Sansa in the kitchens, dreams of eating around the stewed carrots in his bowl only to be reprimanded by Bran, dreams of the hot soup his mother spoon fed him the last time he had been sick in bed. He dreams of watching Jon and Robb compete, see who can clean the deer bones faster, dreams of the little apples Arya had smuggled down to the crypt every time she dragged him down there to see if the carved faces of their forefathers scared him; when they did, she would give him a crisp apple to stifle the crying and he remembered the crisp way the tart juice had run over his tongue with each bite. He dreams of the small tarts his father had given them from time to time, of the way the Lord Eddard Stark had pulled Rickon onto his knee at the feast for King Robert Baratheon before he had been ushered up to bed; dreams about the brief kiss his father had placed on his brow and how his breath had smelled like sweet wine, hot spices and warmth.

Every morning when he wakes up, he asks Osha for these things. Deer meat, ( _warmth_ ), milk, soup, ( _kisses_ ), and apples - even carrots, such is his desperation, _because they're good for you, Rickon_ his brother had always said. But every morning she offers him slivers of bark to chew on, old leather to suck on, perhaps a crust of bread or a bone to break open and suck the marrow from. 

She offers him acorn paste.

He never dreams of acorn paste.


	2. Chapter 2

> _That very night in Max's room a forest grew, and grew, and grew until the ceiling hung with vines and the walls became the world all around and an ocean tumble by with a private boat for Max._

Those are not the only dreams he has, though. Sometimes he dreams of Shaggydog and he finds his hunger mirrored there. The wolf has enough energy to continue being foul tempered when Rickon does not; he bounds through the undergrowth while Rickon clings to Osha's shoulders and hides his face from the elements by burying it in her furs. The direwolf runs while the little boy shivers and limps from the growing blisters on his feet. His shoes are growing too small for him; they let in the sting of the cold, allow it to seep into his boots, his socks, his toes and his bones until he cries with practically every step. Osha carries him for the most part now, and when they bed down at night he rarely moves from wherever she places him. He has grown weak in his hunger, sickly; his nose runs freely only to freeze on his face and he's long since stopped wiping it on his sleeve. His eyes are heavy all the time, his stomach weakly growling as if it were a third person and voicing the demands for substantial food that his mouth had given up on.

But when he closes his eyes, when he floats somewhere between waking conscious and deep pools of sleep, he's never as cold. His dark fur cloak becomes part of him, clings to his body like a second skin, and his muscles stretch and flex in a ready way. They are lesser now than they were before, and skin hangs off bone like a ill-fitted shirt, but there is power there. Power behind his legs, behind his arms, behind his head, and behind his eyes - big yellow eyes that peer through the tall trees without a trace of fear in them. Big yellow eyes that see everything that moves and everything that breaths, and a big wet nose that can smell any sign of prey or man around. 

In his dreams he eats well, but only so often. Only when rabbits with snowy coats to rival Ghost's dare spring from their nests, intent on beating him in a footrace that they were destined to lose the moment they twitched their ears up above their burrow. They're warm, too, on the inside. Rich and warm and he almost feels too sick eating the fat the rabbit built up to last the winter, but it stays down in the end. There's blood on his maw, and a big, raspy tongue curling from between his sharp teeth to clean his muzzle and paws. The blood is tasty as well, like a savory sauce to be drizzled across delicacies, and not to be wasted by leaving it to dry in his coat.

Rickon always awakes from these dreams with a stream of saliva accompanying the snot on his face. One morning he sniffles pitifully in the snowy shelter under a large fallen tree branch, listening for the crunch of snow that would mean Shaggydog had returns from his prowling and waiting for Osha to wake, to pick him up again and resume the days march on tired feet. She sleeps across him, larger body curled around his and an arm over his middle. Her cloak is often thrown across the both of them, though despite the warm cocoon that they make, they both shiver through the night. The proximity means that Rickon can tell when she is stirring, can hear the change in her heartbeat and breathing before she ever moves to draw the fabric of her cloak from his face. This morning, when she does, she uses the corner to wipe his face and looks at him with a sallow, wind beaten face, but bright eyes.

"It's not much farther, my prince," she tells him. 

Behind them, Rickon can sense more than hear Shaggydog approaching. For a brief moment it's as if he can see the dark lump in the shaded snow that is himself and the wildling woman from the wolf's eyes, like he's dreaming, but the moment is gone faster than it came and he's parting his lips to talk.

"Where?" His lips crack with the word, voice cracky from disuse and choked off as he makes to swallow and gets stuck on his own tongue. 

He can't remember. It distresses him slightly, to not be able to remember where they were running to, or what they were running from; why they kept on running even though both were tired and hungry and cold and weak. He had lost the will to question, but as the sheer unfairness of the whole situation struck him again - the whole unfairness that he did not _know_ the situation - there was a hot sting behind his eyes and tears began to well. They do not fall, however. Rickon blinks madly and raises cold, gloved hands to grind his fists into his eyes and rub away the tears before they freeze on his face, too. For a moment he wonders where Bran is going, and why they couldn't go with him, but Osha's patient voice washes over him before he can get good and truly worked up.

"The Skagos, little prince," she says, rolling over to sit up on her knees and reaching her hands under his armpits to hoist him up to sit on her hip. 

They walk most of the day. Around noon Rickon rests his head on her shoulder and lets the snowflakes on her furs brush against his cheek until his hot breath has melted them all. His eyes drift closed again as he falls into the rhythm of Osha's swaying walks - staggers, but graceful limping none the less. He had never been on a boat, save the one he imagined whenever his mother would take him in her arms and rock him, but with the sea of white and the rocky stones that were rising up above them in the distance made this like a vivid picture taken directly from his memory. It frightened him, but comforted him, and though it was fitful and restless, uncomfortable and brief, Rickon slept in her arms.

He dreamed of running through the sea of snow, of raising his head at the smell of humans, drawing back his ears at the sight of a flickering fire in the distance, baring his teeth at the distant crunch of snow under man's boots, and licking his chops at the smell of their meat. 

Though it smelled…suspiciously like the humans themselves.

> _He sailed off through night and day and in and out of weeks and almost over a year to where the wild thing are._


	3. Chapter 3

> _And when he came to the place where the wild things are they roared their terrible roars!_

The men around the campfire had laughed when first they'd seen them, huddled in furs and walking with the distinctive limps that came from traveling long distances on foot. Two rose from their seats around the fire, and Rickon felt Osha stiffen behind him. He had been ill on the short boat ride from the main land to the Skagos island - though more often than not it had simply been tearful nights brought on by the contempt he felt that his wildling guardian had insisted they steer clear of the wall, of Jon who was possibly the only brother he had left (and one of the few he could remember; Jon looked like father, right?) - and now she never strayed far. But this time when she gripped his shoulder and made to draw him behind her, there was something distinctly protective, tense, and almost a little terrifying if he would admit it. The sword they had stolen from the crypt of Winterfell hung at her hip, and even as she pushed him behind her, her other hand brushed the hilt.

The men _leered_ , then, and took three threatening steps toward the two of them. Rickon felt something akin to panic flutter in his stomach, a sensation he was growing more and more accustomed to in his time in the woods. But it was always overshadowed by the never-ending barrage of anger that stemmed from what felt like the very core of his being, that welled up in his chest and manifested in screams and shouts and tantrums - and now is no exception. Little hands ball into tight fists and he is prepared to shout at them to just _leave us alone; we're just tired._

But they stop. Rickon's nostrils flare and he's suddenly distinctly aware of a familiar, musky smell of Shaggydog's pelt, and he can hear the low and dangerous growl sounding in the back of the wolf's throat. There's something fiercely proud that rumbles in his chest whenever the direwolf bares his teeth and growls; it's a manifestation of the vehemence that the little boy feels in himself, yet taken more seriously than his shouts and the pounding of his fists. The men - all five of them are standing now, and the two who must be women raiders have risen into a low crouch with flashes of steel in their hands. Knives. They've got knives, but Shaggy's not flinching, and neither will he. Osha's not drawn her blade yet, but she's poised like a bird; more graceful than he's ever seen her before, and ready to fly. He's not, he's ready to fight, to bare his teeth and snarl and lunge, to bathe in the spray of hot blood from the men's throats like the black wolf beside them does whenever he takes down a deer. Or a human.

But the _humans_ are dropping the tips of their blades, letting their weapons droop toward the ground and looking at one another. One of the women has risen and stalked to the largest man's side, tugged his clothes until he bent to her level and whispered something that made him laugh. When his chest heaved like that, Rickon could see a green lobster emblazoned across his shirt. He couldn't place the sigil, but it stirred something in the back of his mind - something he quickly pushed away because hot tears were stinging in the corners of his eyes as he thought of Bran, spending long hours with Maester Luwin studying things he couldn't remember - and a hand clenched around the back of Osha's robes.

One of the men was laughing. His accent was thick, and when he rumbled something about _Stark Lord_ and pointed to Shaggydog with the end of his sword, the others began to laugh, too. Rickon was not sure if he was imagining it or not, but Osha tensed even _more_ \- even as she chuckled in that dark little way of hers. They spoke, exchanged words that somehow resulted in both of them situated close to the fire, warming their frozen limbs as Shaggy prowled the outer circle of light, eyes gleaming. The Skaggs presented them with a new fur pelt to wrap around their shoulders, and Osha drew Rickon onto her lap to bundle them up. They were given meat, too; fat, dripping legs of goat, and after sniffing the food, Rickon tore into it with abandon. His teeth were small, yes, but so was his mouth and each mouthful was thrice as filling.

The men were _still_ laughing. And as he ate and drifted into a belly-churning sleep (it had been ages since he had been full, and he didn't even _like_ goat), Rickon caught two things in their thick tongues.

 _Another young wolf,_ they called him.

And on the morrow, they would be headed for House Magnar of Kingshouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I confess to not remembering for the life of me which of the Skaggs are loyal to House Stark. They're all technically "sworn" to Bolton, but everyone hates the Bolton's anyway. If anyone remembers this, feel free to drop me a line or just...accept that this is an AU~
> 
> I don't know if this will actually be 8 chapters - this one was supposed to be half of one but rounded off nicely by itself, so who knows! You all might be in for a treat.


	4. Chapter 4

> _And gnashed their terrible teeth!_

At night he dreams of Lannisters.

> _And rolled their terrible eyes._

But they are faceless people in a crowd of bloody walking corpses. Entrails glisten on the floor like fat earthworms, and the bodies of those not quite dead twitch and writhe on the floor like drapes snap in the wind. In his dreams he's always alone, always walking by himself through the streets of King's Landing - which he's never seen before, but imagines to be a sunnier Winterfell, bricks baked golden instead of grey and wet with snowmelt, the scents of everything delicious mingling in the air like hot pies, sweet tarts, stew, roasted walnuts and, oh yes, there was blood there, too, and blood made his mouth water like Shaggydog's when the wolf worked himself into a lather. 

He always walks _alone_ , though. With no wolf, no brother, no mother - or at least he doesn't think the ladies around him are his mother; some have red hair, but no faces (he doesn't remember what her face looks like anymore) - no Osha. The rare occasions that his father makes an appearance, he has to do a double take because he is missing his head.

The dreams started differently. It used to be that every night when he closed his eyes, the beast of his wolf would take over his mind and drag him down to the crypts of Winterfell to sniff around the base of the stone likeness of his father. His bones weren't in there, and it didn't smell like him, but the stone lips moved. The stone eyes opened to show whites and grey irises and rolling in their sockets as the stone statue pulled away from the wall, rose up on its feet and reached out stone hands in his direction. That was always the point where he woke up, jerked away in his bed with sheets and nightclothes sticky with sweat. Sometimes he screamed, or cried, and sometimes he just crept down to the kennels to free Shaggydog and go down in the crypts for real.

It always _felt so real._

And each time he saw his father's stone face inlaid in the rock outcrop that was to be his final resting place, his heart ached. But the feeling in his rib cage was so like that of building rage that he never knew what to do other than close his eyes and hit something.

Winterfell was all gone, now, but the crypts remained.

> _And showed their terrible claws!_

Riots started in his dreams. Dead bodies twisting and shoving, lunging and baring their teeth like Shaggydog did - reaching out arms for him as he tried to duck under their outstretched hands, between their legs and just away - _away._ His fathers head followed him places. Sometimes the expression on his face was kind, worried, and the hoarse words that fell from his lips sounded like indiscernible urges to _run, run rickon get away from here fast_. But other times, Lord Eddard's face was twisted into a leer that Rickon had never seen during the days his father was alive, and it stirred something in him, something that made him turn and run the other direction without having to be bayed to do so.

More often than not, the hands caught him, twisted into the fabric of his tunic and hoisted him off the ground. But this night, cold hands snaked up his face, gripped his chin between long, cold and clammy fingers, and shook him. Shook him _hard_ , shook him -

> _Till Max said: "Be still!" And tamed them with the magic trick of staring into their yellow eyes without blinking once and they were frightened and called him the most wild thing of all!_

" - up, little prince!"

Someone is calling to him. And while it's familiar, he lashes out in a blind fit or terror. The foot of his boot catches something, and the hands disappear as his eyes shoot open. He sits up, still tangled in furs and blinking through sleep, angrily pressing the pads of his palms to his eyes in a fierce attempt to rub the drowsiness away. He has to blink, too, and can hear the low curses before he focuses on Osha, clutching her thigh and glaring at him reproachfully.

She's never been angry with him. Not really, not even when he cried all through the night, or tried to clout her when she took him by the arm and dragged him along when he got too stubborn to walk. Osha had not been mad at him when he'd cried out the night they had slipped from the castle into the crypt to escape Theon, or when he had stopped on the stairs and insisted he was scared, that he wanted Shaggydog and not her; she never even got mad when he told her that he hated her, hated this stupid trip, hated snow and boats and cold and being hungry.

Osha didn't even look particularly angry right now, but the look in her eyes was reproachful enough to make him glower in return. But when he opened his mouth to retort, there was suddenly a hand on the collar of his cloak, and the words die in his throat as he's hoisted up, forced onto his feet. And when he whirled around to see who was holding him, he found himself glaring at the large man - the _lead_ one - from the night before. And _he_ is glaring back.

"You ought not to kick your mother, boy," he growls.

Rickon turned on him, lips drawn and chest out. His eyes - Tully eyes, not Stark eyes - narrow and his hands curl into their familiar balled fists. Behind him, Shaggy growls deep in his chest as the boy shouts, "She's not my mother!" And when the man makes a face and moves to cuff him around the ear for that brief moment of insolence, the boy stamps on his foot and runs to Shaggydog.

> _And made him the king of all wild thing._

They called him _the little king in the north_. Sometimes _the far, far north_. And they made him promises of _home._


End file.
